


Hide Your Fires

by aijee



Series: Chronicles of Not-Adulthood [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slice of Life, lots of complicated feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aijee/pseuds/aijee
Summary: When you have a pretty face and tongue like Jeonghan (and the eyes and knuckles to see past it all like Seungcheol), there’s a surprising number of things you can get away with. Or not.(Or: Jeonghan and Seungcheol grow up, fight, and fall in love, but not necessarily in that order.)





	Hide Your Fires

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's a sucker for parent couples and non-linear narratives?

 

“Stars, hide your fires;  
Let not light see my black and deep desires.”

William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

 

* * *

 

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“Your face says enough.”

Jeonghan wouldn’t know what day of the week he’s on if not for the robin egg blue of Seungcheol’s Monday-Wednesday-Friday scrubs. Not that Seungcheol is headed to Seoul Fashion Week with those things (especially with that “why have I consigned myself to more years of student debt”-look), but at least he isn’t graced with the garish forest green or— _heaven forbid_ —eggplant purple some have the misfortune of wearing.

“It’s a Friday,” Jeonghan states as he sits across from Seungcheol in the hipster, not-hipster café they agreed to meet at.

Seungcheol nods, unfazed, as he passes over Jeonghan’s bi-daily dose of caffeine and sugar syrup in a Styrofoam cup. Seungcheol’s name is on it even though the barista probably knows he’s not the one drinking it.

“You’re going to die of diabetes one day,” Seungcheol says, scowling, _“And_ you’re putting any biologically-related descendants at risk of developing it.”

“Wow, are you a med student or something? I can’t tell.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes and sips his very unproblematic latte. “How was your anatomy test?” _How’s your week been?_

“It was okay.” _Fucking dreadful_.

"Alright."  _That sucks._

“I’ll study harder for the next one, I guess.” _This is a waste of my time, isn’t it?_

Jeonghan sets down his coffee, palm already upturned by the time Seungcheol has plucked a napkin from the dispenser.

“I know you will,” Jeonghan says, even though he really means, _You’re doing fine._

Jeonghan’s smile is abominably pristine despite the degree of abuse he subjects his teeth to with the sugary drinks and alcohol he consumes on a regular basis. Seungcheol vowed long ago that he would make Jeonghan quit one day.

But today, he just smiles, meeting Jeonghan’s eyes for a moment before flitting to the glass window beside him. “What time?” Seungcheol replies while looking at Jeonghan’s reflection. _I’m picking the restaurant this time._

Jeonghan presses the side of his right boat shoe against Seungcheol’s gross, overused trainers, the ones he’s somehow stretched out since high school.

“Six o’clock?”

“Seven.”

“Eight, then?”

Seungcheol laughs something of an echo of Jeonghan’s laugh.

Being ahead in nearly everything makes Seungcheol a beat too late for things like this, too late for the smaller parts of life Jeonghan is always caught up in. But Jeonghan likes to think that his own personality is big enough to fill in the cracks—to make things whole. It's not a one-way thing.

Under the table, Seungcheol presses his foot against Jeonghan’s.

This is how it’s always been.

 

 

 

It starts off with an answer, and then ends with a question.

Maybe it sounds unconventional. And it probably is—they probably are. But when you have a pretty face and tongue like Jeonghan (and the eyes and knuckles to see past it all like Seungcheol), there’s a surprising number of things you can get away with. Or not.

Like most people, they learn that the hard way. That’s probably the most conventional thing about them.

 

 

 

The first thing Seungcheol ever tells Jeonghan is, “You’re dumb.”

The first thing Jeonghan ever tells Seungcheol is, “Who asked you?”

It probably should’ve stopped there. But fifth graders are vicious and bold by nature—a product of being tiny humans with an underdeveloped sense of social danger and who, ironically, hold a great degree of seniority in the hierarchal microcosm assigned to them.

Seungcheol pushes his eyebrows together. “You cut Sujong’s hair.”

Jeonghan doesn’t like how bushy they are. “I only cut off a little bit.”

“You made her cry.”

“Girls cry.”

“Do you?”

Jeonghan sighs even though he hasn’t reached the point of being tired of the gender ambiguity question yet. He shoots back, “I’m not a girl.”

“I asked you if you cried, stupid. I know you’re not a girl.” Seungcheol pauses. “Is there something wrong with being a girl?”

It isn’t as if fifth-grade Jeonghan hasn’t encountered this question before; he hears it quite often when he teases the girls in their class. But he’s never heard the question from a boy, especially not from the quiet, bushy-eyebrowed kid who takes their weekly multiplication table quizzes far too seriously.

Jeonghan says, “I’m getting a little sister soon,” in lieu of _She hasn’t been born yet, but I’m jealous and I don’t know how to deal with my feelings._

It doesn’t answer Seungcheol’s question, but it’s enough of an answer to redecorate the atmosphere so suddenly and Jeonghan wonders why his lungs emptied just as quickly.

“That sounds exciting,” Seungcheol says, tone a breathy mirror of his words. He places a placating hand on Jeonghan’s shoulder. “I wish I could have a younger sister. I only have an older brother.”

“Mom says that’s gonna be me in a few months,” Jeonghan huffs.

“My brother’s mean to me sometimes. Don’t be mean and cut your sister’s hair.”

“I wouldn’t!” Jeonghan looks away, suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed. Embarrassed? What a gross feeling. “I’m a good person. I’ll be a good big brother. Also—”

Seungcheol looks at him with eyes too big for his skull. Give him a few more years and…they will still be too big for him. But they are endearing, if not reassuring in the face of situations that are not. One day Jeonghan will meet their true wrath on the days he does something wrong, and Seungcheol always finds out.

(At the couch, waiting for dinner: “How can you tell?”

At the stove, finishing dinner: “You express more than you let on.”)

But in this moment, they are strangers. They haven’t exchanged names yet, and maybe Seungcheol’s eyebrows won’t stop being too bushy until he grows into himself. None of that matters though because fifth-grade Jeonghan still thinks he’s got a real friendship on his hands.

“I do,” Jeonghan says.

“What?”

“Cry, I mean. I can do that. I cried when I fell and hurt my knee once.”

Seungcheol nods, letting the statement sink in as if it’s simply another fact of the world around him.

“I trust you,” he says.

 

 

 

“You’re actually the last person I’d ever trust. Right below Jihoon, even, and he tried to microwave cereal.”

Jeonghan gasps a gasp so perfect, so clean and sharp, that theater students everywhere within a ten-kilometer radius must be trembling in their custom-bedazzled leotards. That’s what Jeonghan imagines to be typical theater uniform, at least.

“How dare you? Question my integrity like this?” Jeonghan says, as affronted as the hand he flutters to his chest. “My mother would be disappointed.”

“She already is,” Seungcheol grumbles, but doesn’t resist Jeonghan’s insistent tugging at his sleeve. “What are you dragging me into this time?”

“You make it sound like I’ve dragged you into less-than-ideal situations before,” Jeonghan deflects as he starts physically dragging Seungcheol down the school hallway.

Seungcheol “pft”s at him. “‘Less-than-ideal situations’ is going to be your college application resume in a nutshell.”

“What did I say about using the ‘c’ word?”

“College, cauliflower, or communism?”

“You just listed the same word thrice.”

Jeonghan doesn’t have to turn to see Seungcheol’s defeated expression, or to see the begrudging but lingering grin following it.

“You need to start thinking about it at some point,” Seungcheol insists.

“Cauliflower isn’t something you can instantly _force_ to be okay, you know. Evolution and shit.”

“I meant college,” Seungcheol clarifies, easily falling into step with Jeonghan’s long, weirdly excited strides. “We’re starting high school in a year and your Twitter bio still hasn’t changed.”

“First you question my integrity, and now you insult my autobiography?”

“‘Resident human dumpster fire since 1995’ is not the most appealing thing for potential employers to find.”

Jeonghan snorts. “Not the fun ones, at least.”

“Jeonghan—”

“Look,” starts the person in question, abruptly stopping in his path and nearly forcing Seungcheol to faceplant into the back of Jeonghan’s head.

“You need to stop stopping so suddenly,” Seungcheol admonishes, barely stepping into Jeonghan’s personal space after gracefully swiveling out of a double head injury. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened.

“And _you_ ,” Jeonghan pokes Seungcheol’s forehead, “need to calm the fuck down and enjoy your childhood while your birth certificate says you can. Not that you can’t enjoy yourself when you’re older—that’s what sex and alcohol are for—oh don’t look at me like that, you binge-watched _Gossip Girl_ and _liked_ it. Anyway, god knows you’re going to dive headfirst into studying your balls off once you hit the big ‘c’ word so please, for my sake and yours, can you have a little fun for once?”

Seungcheol stares blankly for a moment before looking away, just as he always does when he’s defeated or embarrassed, a situation that usually involves Jeonghan being right—something that’s been less of a rarity these days.

“I don’t need to have fun when I’m already fun,” Seungcheol grumbles, lower lip jutting out rather adorably, if Jeonghan thinks about it.

“I’m sure you are, darling,” Jeonghan coos as he pats Seungcheol’s head. Honesty is hard at this age, so it probably comes off as patronizing, but Seungcheol has known Jeonghan long enough to see it as otherwise. “You are a real man of fun. The funnest of fun. You’re so fun, Ryan Reynolds and BTOB could trip on the ground you tread and feel thankful.”

Seungcheol swipes the offending hand away, but his eyes are twinkling. “High praise, coming from the Buddha of fun himself.”

“ _Oh?_ Are my ears deceiving me or is that a compliment I hear? I might cry—too late, I’m crying.” Cue inhuman bawling noises.

Seungcheol shoves a hand over Jeonghan’s mouth. “Correction: self-proclaimed Buddha of fun.”

“And the Buddha is never wrong.” Above the hand, Jeonghan winks good-naturedly, naturally, like a beautiful elf-gremlin with how perfected an act it has become, especially now that Seungcheol doesn’t gag anymore whenever he sees it. “Ready to fly beyond the material world and experience nirvana?”

“At fourteen? Probably not.”

“Good, because I couldn’t afford nirvana. But I got something pretty close to it!”

Before Seungcheol can utter “Just go on Youtube” in the same uncharitable drawl Jeonghan can imagine in his sleep, Seungcheol is already being shoved into the school’s local sweat lair.

Jeonghan had masterfully conned some tryhard dancer who thinks having a Japanese stage name is cool into handing over after school rights to the dance studio today. (Something tells Jeonghan that doing so might’ve left a bad influence on the poor child.)

Seungcheol’s eyes only start to widen, “What—” before a cake is shoved straight into his face.

“Happy birthday, Choi Seungcheol!”

It’s strange how it takes both of Jeonghan’s lungs to shout out two words, and it’s been a while since he was so breathless. As long as he sounds louder than all their other miscreant, middle school friends, then he thinks it’s worth it.

Maybe Jeonghan should feel guilty about the scolding Seungcheol gets for skipping afternoon tutoring. Maybe Jeonghan should feel guilty about how much of a public (and personal) disturbance he’s become.

The feeling never comes.1

(Footnote 1: This is not to be confused with _a_ feeling, which does come. Exact time of arrival is still under investigation.)

 

 

 

Don’t get Jeonghan wrong—he’s not a sociopath.

At least he doesn’t think he is; life’s a box of chocolates, so he can’t be 100% sure. He just knows he’s more spicy-and-sweet than bitter-and-occasionally-intrapersonally-stunted. Wonwoo stole that throne freshman year anyway.

But what he is sure of is that he loves messing with people.

(Loudly, before petering out: “She is not a toy. _I_ am not a toy. You don’t just…You don’t just toy with people like that.”

Quietly and softly: “I didn’t mean to.”)

Jeonghan often tells himself that his messing around is all a show of affection, a display of closeness he rarely ever finds in most willing see through the pretty eyes and feigned coyness. Direct confrontations make him nervous as fuck, so this is the next best thing.

There’s the time he convinced a freshly-landed Joshua that domestic Koreans actually ate seagulls—priceless.

Then he scammed Soonyoung that one time into trading the dance studio for a half-eaten donut—classic.

Then there’s college graduation when he surprises Seungcheol with the news that he's backpacking across Europe for a year—

“You’re _what?”_

“I’m,” Jeonghan starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. “I’ll be back next December. Probably.”

“Why?”2

“Seoul isn’t the best place to search for one, I guess.”3

Seungcheol is staring at him again like he just damned humanity with news of the apocalypse. Jeonghan expects him to ask, “And you’re telling me only now?” followed by an indignant, “I thought we were friends!”

Instead, Seungcheol’s hard features become gentle between the graduation cap and starchy dress shirt collar, eyes clear and yearning for Jeonghan to stay. That's what Jeonghan hopes they say. If Seungcheol actually said it, Jeonghan wonders if he might have actually stayed.

Instead, Seungcheol asks, “When are you leaving?”

He means, _I’ll see you off when you go._

(Footnote 2: Open ends are dangerous.

Footnote 3: And so are bad closures.)

  

 

 

“You look like the Cookie Monster’s greener, less important cousin,” Seungcheol comments with a snicker. “Envy is a universally bad look, you know.”

Jeonghan pouts, definitely undeserving of such rudeness. “Hey, everything looks good on me.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘better,’ but not necessarily good.”

Jeonghan barks a laugh.

The two of them are walking to the bus stop after celebrating the first win of Seungcheol’s last season in varsity basketball. In front of them, Mingyu is being very unsubtle about trying to hold Wonwoo’s hand, and Wonwoo is being even more unsubtle about wanting to hold hands and avoiding it because he’s Wonwoo.

“I can’t help it, being envious,” Jeonghan huffs, hands digging deeper into his empty jacket pockets. “I babysit my sister on the reg. I put the toilet seat down when I’m done. Hell, I reduce, reuse, _and_ recycle—how many people do you know actually commit to all three? I’m…I'm a good person. Right?”

“You are,” Seungcheol affirms, bumping their shoulders together. He sweats like a nun in a sex toy shop so his hair is still shiny with sweat, but at least Seungcheol’s slicked it back so Jeonghan can see more of his face. “I think you’re a good person. Even if you make me question that thought sometimes.”4

Jeonghan looks up at the sky, where the stars have run away to find a place less crowded. “Then why is a little romancing so out of reach for me?” he asks, unsure of who exactly he’s asking.

“If this is about prom—”

“It’s not.” Jeonghan shrugs, doesn’t know why he does. “It would’ve been pretty sick if she could go with me, though.” _I’ve liked her for so long._ “God, she’s cute as hell.” _But I can’t fault you for being liked by her._

“I’m sorry.” _I really am._

Jeonghan makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to sound like or express. It’s a riddle he’s thrown to the air, one he hopes Seungcheol will solve for him like he always does.

“Piggy back me, then,” Jeonghan says like it’s a metaphor.

“Jeonghan—”

“ _C’mon.”_

“Maybe tomorrow—”

“Please?”

“I’ve literally used up all my physical energy today and you’re asking me to—”

“I thought you loved me.”

He knows he’s being whiny, and unfair, and a bit of a brat. He has no justification for it, no reason to be so stubborn about coercing the oldest one there to exert himself even more than he already has. Jesus, Jeonghan is such a difficult ass sometimes he wonders why Seungcheol ever thought (and stayed) to put up with it all.

With a heavy sigh and a crooked grin, Seungcheol squats a little and opens his arms behind his back.

“Wonwoo’s right,” he says, grunting when Jeonghan hops on. “You really are a fucker.”

“Your favorite,” Jeonghan is more than glad to say.

(Footnote 4: Categorization is a survival process. So is building bridges between the gaps.)

 

 

 

Jeonghan’s favorite place to be kissed is behind the ear.

It’s the place he scratches when he’s nervous or shy around people he doesn’t know. Where his first pimple scarred over flat and discolored, where his mother would press her thumb when he cried.

It’s also where Seungcheol brushes back Jeonghan’s hair when it starts getting long enough for hair ties. When he does this, Seungcheol is usually nagging. _Get your split ends cut you lethargic twat. Ugh, now you’re even more of a fire hazard. Come’ere, lazy ass, I’ll dry it for you._

But sometimes Seungcheol brushes it back when he’s looking from above Jeonghan, sometimes from below, face flushed, gaze glazed across with a sweet acceptance he’s only ever had for Jeonghan.

Seungcheol teases him about it once, had expected Jeonghan to prefer something showier, more easily bragged about when at a bar with the boys. God knows there isn’t a collarbone hickey Jeonghan never liked. But ask him what intimacy means—what butterflies and warmth and happiness look like—and he’ll point to the back of his ear.

Where does Seungcheol like being kissed? Maybe his dick. Hopefully. It would be awkward if this was never the case and Jeonghan’s just been sucking Seungcheol Jr. because Seungcheol Sr. was being accommodating.

“The left side of my chest,” is the answer after sex on a Wednesday at three AM even though Seungcheol has a six o’clock at the ER almost every day.

“So near your heart?”

“I choose to abstain from clarifying.”5

“Gross,” Jeonghan mumbles into Seungcheol’s neck, toes curling under the sheets and lightly scratching at Seungcheol’s shins.

Seungcheol brings Jeonghan’s head closer, close enough comb Jeonghan’s hair back with one hand and _pull_ like a lever to open Jeonghan’s neck and mouth. He kisses at the ridges, the dips, the edges Jeonghan never lets the light of day ever touch.

Then Seungcheol stops, right behind Jeonghan’s ear. He whispers something near inaudible if not for the weird hearing-to-brain filter Jeonghan’s had since he was little.

(Footnote 5: “That’s where you’ve always been, and will always be.”)

 

 

 

“Congratulations,” Seungcheol barely hisses out before pushing past Jeonghan and into their once-shared apartment. “You have somehow surpassed paramount assholery in as little as eight hours. A word for the fans?”

They’re at a pretentious twenty-something and Jeonghan’s head fucking hurts— “I said I’m _sorry”_ —like the bastard lovechild of an earthquake and being duct-taped to a concert speaker at a drum solo.

“Do you think a shitty ‘I’m sorry’ is enough to fix how heartbroken Nayoung is? How heartbroken she looked?” Seungcheol seethes at the couch, his hands cradling his own headache. It’s not from alcohol. “She is not a toy. _I_ am not a toy. You don’t just…” Seungcheol heaves a stuttered sigh. “You don’t just toy with people like that.”

The world is swaying and tastes a little rank, so Jeonghan gingerly sets himself on the floor. “I didn’t mean to,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t remember much from last night. A high school reunion party, familiar faces grown over with reality and unfamiliar faces still unfamiliar. There were too many liquor bottles with foreign names forgone at the fancy, colorful stickers. Jeonghan likes stickers.

Yeah, they’re supposed to be responsible adults by now, but Jeonghan was always shit at finishing to-do lists.

It was something about Seungcheol’s old prom date. Something about brandy. Something about Jeonghan wondering if Seungcheol tasted like brandy, which lead to more brandy but maybe not the drink.

Jeonghan can’t find it in himself to feel guilty.6

“You need to control yourself.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Jeonghan’s tired of this conversation already, wants to sleep away the white noise until it turns to sand that can easily slip through his fingers. It will still be there at his feet, but he keeps his chin up high enough not to see it.

“You need to talk to me, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol urges, voice softer, uncharacteristically pleading. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”

Jeonghan hiccups. “Neither do you.”

“I—” Something passes through Seungcheol’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so caught up in studying and work—”

“Are you dating?”

“Does this have to do with—”

“Nayoung?” Jeonghan shrugs. His head still hurts. “I don’t know. You were hardly ever home. Moving out didn’t make a difference, you know.”

“You made it harder to come back.”7

A noise leaves Jeonghan’s throat. Maybe it’s a laugh. Maybe it’s disbelief. Maybe it’s both or neither.

Jeonghan passes out on the floor before he finds out. Turns out his body hates direct confrontations as much as he does.

(Footnote 6: But Seungcheol’s disappointment, like a bell through Jeonghan’s haze, makes Jeonghan feel something close enough to guilt.)

 

 

 

When Jeonghan’s plane from St. Petersburg lands in Seoul, Seungcheol is there to greet him. In his hand is a printer paper sign with WELCOME BACK JEONGHAN scrawled in purple marker, hoodie over his scrubs, and gross, overused trainers on his feet. Of course, he’s the only one awake at this ungodly hour.

Jeonghan runs into his arms like a battering ram on steroids and wraps his legs around Seungcheol’s waist because _god damn_ Jeonghan hasn’t seen his favorite personal chef, alarm clock, homework reminder, spellchecker, complaints jar, and partner-in-crime in so long.

“Yes,” Jeonghan breathes into Seungcheol’s neck. “Yes. All the yesses and their closely-related fuck yeahs.”

Seungcheol laughs something an echo of Jeonghan’s laugh, following behind Jeonghan as he usually does. He sets Jeonghan down and cups Jeonghan’s face in his hands.

“At least let me pop the question first,” Seungcheol chastises, pressing his thumb behind Jeonghan’s ear.

“You never had to,” Jeonghan says, before kissing Seungcheol another _yes._

(Footnote 7: “I missed you so much. I always do.”)

 

 

 

Jeonghan wakes up on a floor that feels oddly like a couch. Because it’s actually a couch—his and Seungcheol’s before it just became his—and someone is cooking something in the kitchen, and—oh—Seungcheol hasn’t left yet. Didn’t leave. Isn’t leaving?

“I’m not dating Nayoung,” Seungcheol says, probably hearing the shuffling in the living room. His ingredients. Jeonghan’s stove. Nothing new in retrospect, but it felt new in the moment. “Just to be clear, I was never interested in her. And she was never interested in me.”

“Then why— you with her— the _dates_ —”

“Are you— no. _No.”_ Seungcheol groans, hand darting to squeeze between his eyes because Jeonghan must have fucked the fuck up again. “I keep telling you that our moms are just good friends. Nayoung liked _you_ , you dumbass. Always has.”

“Prom— senior year— asked you—”

“Our moms wanted us to go together on our last year of high school. You were also the delinquent who superglued whoopee cushions to public park swings, so her mom didn’t trust you. Good decision on her mom's part, honestly.”

“Ouch.”

“Ah, sorry.”

“No, I totally agree. ‘S just another bruise to add to the collection, I guess.”

Maybe Jeonghan’s head hurts a little less, and maybe Seungcheol doesn’t sound as angry anymore. Maybe they’re both apologizing without saying sorry.

“Did you want to go with her?” Jeonghan asks.

“I guess not,” Seungcheol answers.

“Who did you want to go with, then?”

Even though Jeonghan is only now reaching a state of being barely conscious, he can still see the redness in Seungcheol’s ears, the awkward bob of his Adam’s apple.

“More like ‘what’ did I want to go with,” Seungcheol elaborates but doesn’t. “Jesus, I was a desperate munchkin back then.”

Jeonghan wrinkles his nose at his own breath. It smells like ashes after a fire, a dragon dead in its own skull and greed. But the bones are still there, spine and ribcage and fingertips impaled in the earth. Maybe they can be a home for something else.

“A monster,” Seungcheol says, warily eyeing the rice pot timer.

“Is that what I am?” Jeonghan asks, warily eyeing him.

“Not in a bad way—” _ding ding ding,_ “—since we’re all kind of a monster to some degree—” open lid, scoop, “—but you—” close, set to cool, “have always been a bit of a fire hazard from the start.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeonghan’s usual attempt at flamboyant offense fizzles into tired curiosity. “I didn’t set off the fire alarm _that_ often. Are you trashing my middle school Twitter bio again? Or do you mean I’m hot?”

“Whatever helps you feel better about yourself.”

“Thanks for vote of confidence, Mom.”

“We all need one sometimes.”

Jeonghan refuses to smile, doesn’t think he deserves to yet, so he hides himself with the throw blanket Seungcheol’s grandparents sent them both two Christmases ago. “How can you tell?” he asks quietly. “I mean, how can you always tell what I’m thinking?”

He can hear Seungcheol turn off the stovetop, a _click_ and the scrape of the pan off the burner. It all sounds the same as two weeks ago, and the week before that, and the week before that. It will also sound the same as next week, and the next, and the next.

“You express more than you let on,” Seungcheol says. “You’re also kind of shit at hiding things.”

 _Only when I’m with you_ , Jeonghan almost replies. But from the look on Seungcheol’s face, Jeonghan guesses he doesn’t have to.

“Thank you,” Jeonghan says instead, gathers up himself and the blanket, then trudges to the small dining table he bought on sale when the two of them first moved in together. “Are you…” _staying?_

Seungcheol takes a seat in front of him; no hesitation, no running away.

He says, “I am.”

Jeonghan lets himself smile this time, properly and unabashed like he always does. Today is the tomorrow he didn’t think would ever come, but it’s here and present and—well, there’s a reason why it’s called that, he supposes.

Jeonghan upturns his palm. “Can you pass the water pitcher?”

 

 

“Did you really throw out all the Pepsi? _And_ the wine?”

“You said I had to quit sugar!”

“This is not how you do it! We paid good money for all that!” Seungcheol groans an octave higher despite his rusty throat. He also isn’t wearing anything but his dignity, and Jeonghan would find it cute if the heater extended past the floor.

He presses a pair of sweatpants into Seungcheol’s hands, then presses down Seungcheol’s bed hair to no success. “You look like a mess,” Jeonghan notes fondly.

“Says the mess himself,” Seungcheol snipes, becoming more tired and rickety with age. Not that Jeonghan can judge, being only slightly younger.

It’s one of the few days Seungcheol has a day off from the hospital and one of the many days Jeonghan spends taking a break from his IT work at home. Seungcheol’s scrubs are in the wash, as are Jeonghan’s pajamas from last night. The cup of coffee in Jeonghan’s hand is definitely not sweet enough, but at least the creamer hasn’t met disposal doom yet.

“You made breakfast,” Seungcheol notices right after digging in. “That’s a first.”

“A third,” Jeonghan corrects, embarrassed. “But I didn’t set off the fire alarms this time—”

“It’s good,” Seungcheol affirms softly, kissing Jeonghan’s head when he gets up to grab the OJ from the fridge—no pulp, as usual. “You’re good.”

(Eyes twinkling, after the stars have fled: “Even if you make me question that thought sometimes.”)

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Jeonghan says a bit haughty, a bit full of himself because it’s been a hot minute since he’s let himself feel that way. He takes a bite of his share and _hell yeah_ it’s edible. What a Functional Adult he’s become, huh?

There’s a brief glimmer to Seungcheol’s knuckles when he pours his orange juice. Jeonghan doesn’t see it often because of Seungcheol’s work, and there are so many things on Seungcheol’s mind that Jeonghan doesn’t fault him for forgetting sometimes.

Jeonghan remembers enough little things for the both of them, anyway.

 

 

Some untagged footnotes:

For the worth so belabored into certainty, Jeonghan thinks that people are made of a hell of a lot of maybes. It’s not so bad. Makes things harder, makes all the guessing more dangerous and the people unsteady, but still worth fighting for.

Even after the wreckage, after the forest fires and hurricanes, those who stay behind are the ones who really matter.

It’s nice, having someone to come back to. Even after running away, you can still have a home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> am i jeonghan or am i wonwoo (plot twist: i'm actually seungcheol)
> 
> thanks for reading!! let me know what you think! <3
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://aijee.tumblr.com)


End file.
